


The Price of the Hunt

by Nativestar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Season/Series 01, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar/pseuds/Nativestar
Summary: John struggles to deal with the aftermath when both Sam and Dean are injured on a hunt. Pre-series, Dean is 12, Sam is 8.





	1. The Price of the Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2007 on my LJ account. I'm considering closing it so I'm bringing across my Supernatural fic. Huge thank you to extraonions on LJ way back when for the fantastic beta work.

The first time John left his boys in the car to go hunting was also the last.

John stood, back pressed up against the wall of the hallway so hard he felt like he could almost be a part of it.  Busy staff passed him without a second glance. 

_They were supposed to be safe in the car._

John stared through the glass of the double doors.  Barely blinking, because to blink would be to not see and right now John needed to see every second of it.  The air around him felt oppressive, closing in on him. 

_They weren’t supposed to leave the car._

There was nothing he could do and it tore at him.  He was powerless and on the verge of losing everything.  Forced to watch by the sidelines, just as he had when he had lost Mary.

His world narrowed to a tunnel, focusing solely on the events unfolding behind the doors.

_This shouldn’t have happened._

A nurse rushed out, hurrying down the corridor and around the corner.

As the doors swung, John briefly heard what was going on inside.

“BP’s falling, 80 over 60-- ”

“Heartbeat’s erratic!”

“Hang another unit and book an OR.”

“Push another mil of epi--”

The door swung back cutting John off from his son once again.

_This_ can’t _be happening._

 

* * *

 

Hours later, John found himself sitting by his son’s bed in the children’s ward, cradling a warm cup of coffee in his hands.

It was relatively quiet with the exception of the nurses’ hourly checks.  A far cry from the commotion of the ER.

He watched his youngest breathe.

In and out.

Softly and easily.

Concussion, the doctor had told him.  Scrapes and bruises and a mild concussion.    Sam had an IV for dehydration but otherwise all he needed was time and rest.  He’ll be fine, the doctor said.  John found that hard to accept given that Sam couldn’t stay awake for more than five minutes.  A day or two for observation he’d been told and Sam would be discharged which was more than could be said about Dean.

_God, Dean._

Dean had suffered massive blood loss as well as internal bleeding and a fractured arm.

_I should have been faster, found the damn thing quicker._

John had killed the black dog in the woods, returning to the Impala victorious, intending to treat his sons to ice cream.  Instead he found his sons bleeding and broken.

John swore his heart stopped for a second as he had walked out of the woods and saw Dean crumpled by the open door of the Impala, blood slowly pooling beneath him.  Sam had laid stretched out just behind Dean, a red lump already forming on his forehead.

Neither was conscious.

John broke just about all the speed limits on the way to the hospital.

He still didn’t know exactly what had happened.

He didn’t know why they left the car.

He didn’t know how the thing had doubled back to the car before he had killed it.

He didn’t know if Dean would make it.

Dean had been in surgery for three hours.

 

* * *

  
Sam slept on, rousing only briefly for the checks.  John sat unmoving in the hard plastic seat, eyes on Sam and mind on Dean.

Reluctant to leave Sam alone, he got up only to alleviate his numb ass and to question the nurses on Dean’s progress.

They kept telling John that as soon as they had any news they would come tell him.

Dean had been in surgery for four hours.

 

* * *

   
  
John sighed; no news was good news, right?

Sam moaned softly and shifted slightly in the bed.  He’d been showing signs of waking up for the past half hour.

“Shhh, Sammy, you’re alright.”  John squeezed Sam’s hand gently “You gonna open your eyes for me, son?”

Sam sighed and slept on.

_I guess not._

Ten minutes later, Sam’s nurse came in to check on him.  She was young and petite with blonde hair tied up into a bun.  She gave John a soft smile whenever she came in and he noticed this time, with a pang of grief, that her nametag said Mary.  With gentleness and persistence Mary got Sam to open his eyes and tell her his name and birthday.

“Has there been any news?” John asked.

Mary shook her head.

“I’m sorry, not yet.”  She tucked the covers up round Sam, who had fallen asleep again, in a way that John could tell she had children of her own, then she left him alone.

Dean had been in surgery for 5 hours.

_No news really isn’t good news,_ John decided _it’s just no news.  Plain and simple and nerve-racking._

 

* * *

  
It had been almost six hours since Dean had been taken to surgery when John noticed a surgeon heading towards him.  His face was grim.  John’s heart skipped a beat and his throat tightened as he stood.

“Mr Winchester?  I’m Doctor Sampson, I operated on your son.” 

Numbly, John shook hands with him.  The surgeon’s name barely registered and was promptly forgotten.

“Please, my son, is he…?”

“Your son made it through the surgery.  There were some complications but he’s now resting comfortably in recovery.”  John’s legs refused to hold his weight and he sunk down into the chair.

“Thank god!”

Doctor Samson dragged a chair over from the corner and sat opposite John.

“I must warn you, Mr Winchester, your son is still in critical condition.  Right now we’re cautiously optimistic.  The next 24 hours are important.  If he makes it through without further complications then his chances of a full recovery are good.”

John briefly closed his eyes, sighing in relief while Doctor Sampson continued to explain Dean’s injuries.

“Your son suffered a collapsed lung caused by a fractured rib which unfortunately also nicked his spleen.  We’ve repaired your son’s punctured lung with a chest tube to drain off the excess fluid and that will stay in for at least a few days.   Right now, he’s on a ventilator due to both the shock and to give his lung a chance to heal.  He lost a lot of blood so we’ve also transfused him with a couple of units of blood.”

The doctor paused waiting for a second while John processed the information.  “It was touch and go for a while whether we would have to remove the spleen and there was an additional bleed which we initially missed but, thankfully, we were able to stop the bleeding and barring any further problems, it should be fine.”

There was another pause.  John’s relief that Dean had survived the surgery was dampened by the realisation of just how sick his boy was.

“We also had a problem keeping his blood pressure up while he was in surgery and he briefly went into cardiac arrest, but we got him back quickly.  Now that the bleeding has stopped and with the transfusion we don’t expect any additional problems although we will be monitoring him closely.”

John was shocked.

_Dean almost died in surgery._

He almost missed the doctor asking him if he had any questions.  Swallowing hard and not trusting his voice, John absently shook his head.

The doctor rose.  “He’ll be in recovery for the next hour or so and then we’re moving him up to PICU.”

John looked up with a tight smile.

“Thank you,” he managed softly.

His boy was alive.

 

* * *

  
Standing in Sam’s doorway John wondered if the nurses would allow him into recovery to see Dean.

“Daddy?” Sam’s sleepy voice broke John out of his thoughts.  Relief flowed as John walked over.

“Hey, Sammy.” Deep inside John something unclenched.  Just a little.  “Glad you decided to join us, son.”

“What happened, Daddy?”

“I…” John gently brushed the hair off Sam’s forehead.  “Honestly son, I don’t know.  I came back to the car and…do you remember anything?”

_Please, don’t let him remember Dean being attacked._

Sammy shook his head minutely before stopping, tears welling in his eyes.

“My head hurts, Daddy.”

John bit his lip.

“I know Sammy, you hit it quite hard.  I’ll get the nurses to give you something for it.” John whispered.

“Ok,” Sam’s eyes were drooping and John continued stroking Sam’s dark hair.  “Where’s Dean, Daddy?”  Sam was almost asleep but opened his eyes searching the room for his big brother.  “Was he hurt too?”

“Yeah,” Sam’s eyes snapped wide open, “but he’s gonna be alright, Sammy, the doctors have him in a different room so they can look after him.”  John cleared his voice, keeping it steady.  “He’s gonna be fine, son.”

Sam was wide awake now.

“Can I go see him?  I need to see Dean, Daddy.”

“No, you can’t Sammy, not yet.”

Sam started to sit up, despite the pain it clearly caused.

“Why not?  If he’s hurt he might need me.”  Sam’s eyes filled with tears.

Gently restraining his son, John said “Sam, look at me buddy.” He waited until Sam met his eyes.  “Dean’s sick, ok, but I promise you he will be alright.”  John wiped the tears from Sam’s checks.  “Right now, I need you to be brave.  You have to be a big boy, ok?  Can you do that for me?  For Dean?”

A tear escaped, trickling down Sam’s face as he nodded.  He lay back down and John began smoothing back his hair again.

“Good boy,” John pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead.

Slowly, soothed by the repetitive motion of John’s hand, Sam drifted off to sleep. 

Silently, John prayed to God that he had not just lied to his son.

John stood with a sigh, stretching, and left to check on Dean.

 

* * *

  
It wasn’t the first time John had been into an ICU nor would it probably be the last.  It was, however, the first time it had been to visit his son.

_God, please let it be the first and last time._

The nurse let him know which bed and explained that there were a lot of machines and monitors surrounding his son.  That it could be alarming but they were helping Dean. 

But when John saw Dean he decided the nurse couldn’t have been more wrong.

_It’s not alarming, it’s downright terrifying._

Dean looked so _fragile_.  Blood pressure, pulse oximeter, leads, catheters, IVs and half a dozen other monitors John didn’t recognise were attached to his small body.  A ventilator regularly pushed air into Dean’s lungs.

Tears clouded John’s eyes and he sat, taking Dean’s hand carefully into his own.

_I’m so sorry, Dean.  So sorry.  This shouldn’t have happened.  No hunt is worth this.  No hunt.  Please.  Please, don’t die._

 

* * *

 

After an hour, John reluctantly left Dean’s side to check on Sam.  John found Sam still peacefully asleep.  The bruise on his forehead stood out starkly against his pale skin, a sharp reminder of John’s failure to protect his boys.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” John whispered.

 

* * *

   
John eventually left Sam to check on Dean stopping on the way to grab a cup of mud masquerading as coffee.  As he entered the ward, several members of the staff rushed by him into his son’s room.  Coffee forgotten, he charged into the room in time to see his son’s body jerk on the bed as 200 joules of electricity passed through.

“Anything?”

“Still nothing.”

“Ok, charging…Clear!” Again electricity surged through Dean’s body as the doctors tried to coax his heart to beat once more.

“I’m not getting anything,”

“How long has he been down now?”

“10 minutes,” The taste of coffee felt bitter in John’s mouth.  It had taken him 10 minutes to find the damned coffee machine.

“Ok, Starting CPR, push another round of Epi and charge to 300.”  Barely breathing John watched, standing against the door.  He felt powerless once again, trusting his son’s life to strangers.

“Epi’s in.”

_Come on, Dean, come on.  Dean.  Come on, come back to us, son._

“Right.  Charging to 300,”  
  
_Please._

“Wait!”

An unsteady beeping filled the room, slowly settling into something resembling a rhythm.  It was the sweetest sound John had ever heard.  Feeling light headed, John collapsed against the door and breathed again.

“Mr Winchester? Sir, I’m sorry but we need you to come down to the children’s ward,”

With effort John dragged his eyes away from the commotion of doctors to the nurse who held his elbow.  It was Mary.

“Sammy?  Is my son ok?”

Dean needed him right now.

“He’s had a nightmare and the nurses can’t calm him down.”  She understood John’s dilemma.  “Your son, Dean, he’s in good hands.  He’ll be ok.”

“Like he was the last time I left him.”  It seemed Dean knew when he was alone.

_I can’t be in two places at once._

One of the doctors overheard and approached John.  The slightly overweight doctor was old enough to be John’s father and had a head of grey hair.  John was reassured that there was someone who clearly had a lot of experience working on his son. 

“Dean’s blood pressure bottomed out which caused his heart to stop.  We’re adjusting his medications and we’re going to take him down for a CT scan as a precaution to check everything’s ok and make sure there’s no additional bleeding.” His voice was deep and calming.  It wasn’t the first time he had dealt with concerned parents. “It’s going to take at least an hour.  Why don’t you take that time to go see your other son, maybe get some food and we’ll let you know when Dean gets back.” He squeezed John’s shoulder.  “We’ll take good care of him.”

“Thank you,” John whispered, offering a wan smile.

He took another longing look at Dean, who was almost lost between the medical staff and the equipment then he let his feet guide him back to Sammy.

 

* * *

   
“Daddy!”  Sam practically screamed his name, launching himself into John’s arms as soon as he was close enough.  Quietly excusing herself, the nurse left, giving them some privacy.

“Shhh, it’s ok, Sammy, you’re alright now.”  He held his son tightly.  It wasn’t clear which one of them needed hugging the most.

“Want to tell me what it was about, kiddo?” He whispered into Sammy’s hair with a quick kiss.

“They were hurting Dean,” came Sammy’s voice muffled by John’s shoulder.

John’s arms tightened around Sam as he realised his son was probably remembering the attack.  Sitting on the bed, he rearranged Sam in his arms until he could see his face.

“Who were?”

“Men in white coats like the doctors.  They kept hitting him on his chest.”  Sam sniffed, tear tracks drying on his face while fresh tears welled in his eyes.

“They hurt Dean, Daddy,” Sam’s looked up at him, eyes pleading with John to do something.

“It was just a nightmare, just a nightmare.”  John whispered.

_God, no more TV medical dramas for Sammy._

As he reassured him, John hoped Sam would never know how close to the truth his nightmare had come.

“It’s ok, Sammy; it was just a bad dream.  Dean’s fine.” Through sheer force of will John’s voice didn’t crack.

“Can I go see Dean?”

“You’re supposed to stay here, Sam, so the doctors can keep an eye on you.”

John sighed heavily, feeling torn.  There was no way he could be in two places at once, but both his sons needed him so badly and he to be honest he needed them just as badly.  Reaching a solution John gathered up his son in his blankets, rested the IV bag on his shoulder and walked out the room.  


 

* * *

   
John sat in his chair by Dean’s bedside, watching the rhythmic bouncing of the heart monitor.  The accompanying soft beeping reassured him, told him Dean was still fighting.  Dean had thankfully made it through another hour without further incidents and the doctors were mentioning the phrase ‘cautiously optimistic’ again.  Sammy was a comforting warm lump wrapped in blankets on John’s lap.  He had carried his son up to Dean’s room luckily avoiding any staff that might have questioned him.  Sam’s eyes had been as wide as saucers and filled with fear.  Hooking Sam’s IV onto Dean’s IV stand he had then quietly explained the equipment that he recognised around Dean and how it was helping him.  He answered Sam’s questions as truthfully as he could and made up reassuring answers whenever Sam pointed to something he was unfamiliar with.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before exhaustion crept over Sam.

Now, both sons slept while John kept watch.

 

* * *

   
Five minutes after Sam had fallen asleep a nurse came in to take Dean’s vitals.  John didn’t recognise her and realised it must now be the night shift.  She was older than John and had a matronly look about her, like you wouldn’t want to be caught breaking the rules in her ward, which was exactly what John was doing.  This was confirmed as John saw the look on her face when she noticed Sam.

“I know.” John kept his voice low. “He had a nightmare about his brother, they’re only keeping Sam for observation so I didn’t think it’d hurt for him to see Dean.”

Compassion replaced disapproval.

“I’ll let the nurses on his ward know he’s here.”  She said as she carefully carried out her duties.

Surprised, John whispered, “Thank you,” before returning to his vigil.

 

* * *

   
John sat for over an hour, his own exhaustion threatening to overcome him.

_I’m sorry, Mary, I never…I’m sorry.  I thought I was protecting them.  I thought I could keep them safe._

John vowed this would never happen again.

_When they’re recovered and we start training again…I’ll train them harder, better.  They’ll be prepared.  They’ll be able to protect themselves._

_This won’t happen again, Mary._

The heart monitor picked up its pace slightly.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes blinked sluggishly at John, mind clouded by drugs and too weak to protest the ventilator.

“Hey, kiddo,” John smiled, tears filling his eyes.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok, they put a tube down your throat to help you breathe but you’re ok.  Don’t fight it.”

John placed a comforting hand on Dean’s chest, mindful of the various leads and dressings. Through the thin cotton of the hospital issued gown he could feel the reassuringly steady beat of his son’s heart.

“You gave your old man quite a scare.” He said whispering, “Don’t ever do that again Dean, please.”

Dean blinked slowly.  Then he blinked at Sam, still resting on John’s lap, curled up in blankets.

“He’s ok, Dean.  You did good.  He’s a little bruised, a little worse for wear, but he’s fine.”

Dean’s blink was much slower this time.

“It’s ok, son.  Get some rest.”  Moving his hand, John began stroking Dean’s forehead with his thumb.  “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Dean’s eyes slipped closed again and finally John allowed his own to follow.


	2. Dealing with the Cost

Dean doesn’t remember much. The first few days after the black dog attack which ended with both him and his brother in the hospital were little more than a blurry haze.  Just brief moments, scattered in his memory.  He doesn’t remember waking up that first time in PICU, only finding out a days later from his dad.  He was in and out of it for the first two days and he while he has no specific memories he does remember pain and being uncomfortable but somehow knowing someone was always there.  
  
A heavy hand on his head, a deep rumble of a voice and once, a soft wet kiss on his cheek that is his brother’s trademark.  
  
Dean remembered the third day with crystal clarity.  The day he lost the ventilator.  It was the first time he had been both awake and fully aware of the suffocating tube.  Choking and scared he was reaching to pull it out before he knew what was happening.  Only John’s quick hands and his promise to call a doctor stopped Dean and got him to relax and calm down.  After the doctor had dragged the tube out of his throat Dean felt like he was coughing up a lung.  The actions aggravated his broken ribs sending waves of fiery pain across his chest.  He knew his dad was there, hand on his arm, but he was barely aware of his surroundings.  He heard a doctor mention a sedative and numbing blackness quickly took him away.  
  


* * *

  
The next time Dean opened his eyes, he regretted it, as his doctor told him they were going to take out the chest tube.  
  


The doctor introduced himself as Dr Sampson; he was taller than Dean’s father and was quite young with blond hair that reminded Dean of Sammy’s.  His touch was gentle, soothing Dean’s nerves as he explained what he was going to do and then asking if Dean understood.  
  


“Yeah,” even hidden behind an oxygen mask Dean was shocked how weak and shaky his own voice sounded.  
  


Surprisingly quick, it was painful but much less so than the agony of removing the breathing tube.  
  


“We’ll see how you’re doing later and if there’s no problems then we’ll probably move you to the children’s ward sometime later today,” the doctor explained before excusing himself.  Dean reached up, pulling his mask down.  
  


“Dean, you need to keep that on,” John said as he reached over to replace it.  
  


“Is Sammy ok?” Dean whispered, unable to get his sore throat to produce anything louder.  
  


John sighed, putting the mask back over Dean’s face before answering.  
  
“Yeah, kiddo, he’s fine.  He had a minor concussion but he was discharged yesterday.” John brushed the hair back from Dean’s forehead, like he had done so often since his son had been brought in.  “He’s been here most of the time, a nurse took him away when the doc removed the breathing tube and he’s now sleeping in the doctor’s lounge.”  
  


Reassured, Dean allowed himself to relax, the familiar tug of sleep returning.  
  


The procedure had exhausted what little reserves Dean had and so he closed his eyes.  He felt his dad’s warm hand come to rest on his shoulder and as a thumb started to rub comforting circles through the cotton of his pyjamas, he drifted off to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
When Dean next blinked awake the first thing he noticed was the different ceiling.  In PICU the ceiling was white and smooth; this one was taller and divided into squares with dots.  He frowned, rolling his head to the side where his found his father sitting and behind his chair, a hospital bed with a small kid curled up, sleeping.  
  
“They moved you to the regular children’s ward a couple of hours ago.” John explained seeing Dean’s confusion.  “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Alright,” Dean’s voice was husky, like he was recovering from a cold.  He realised during the move his oxygen mask had been replaced for something that ran under his nose, delivering oxygen.  He lifted a hand up, fingering the tubing.  
  
“Leave that alone, Dean.”  
  
Dean sighed, realising he must be on some good painkillers to be able to do that and only feel a twinge in his side.  
  
“Where’s Sam?”  
  
“Nurse’s station.  He was on this ward for a couple of days and he’s managed to get a couple of them wrapped around his finger.”  
  
Dean smiled, “Sounds like Sammy.”  
  
“Dean, do you remember what happened?” John didn’t want to push but he couldn’t wait any longer to ask.  
  
There was a long silence and John began to think he wasn’t going to get an answer when hesitantly Dean spoke.  
  
“It was a black dog…” at John’s confirming nod he continued, “I remember being in the car, Sam was bored and I was telling him a story…can’t remember what it was now…then _it_ was there.  Circling the car.  Snarling.” Dean looked up from the blanket, meeting John’s gaze.  “Sammy was real scared, Dad.  I remember grabbing the gun…it was watching us…started hitting the car, not hard, just rocking it a lot.  And it was growling and then just…and then…it left.  I remember the black dog left.  That’s the last thing I remember.  It moved away from the car and left us.”  Dean shrugged a shoulder, wincing as his ribs flared with pain.  
  
“When I got back to the car, the back door was open.” John hesitated.  He wanted to jog Dean’s memory but his own memory of finding his sons hurt and bleeding was a little too fresh in his mind.  “You were on the ground in front of the car, bleeding.  Sam was just behind you.” He paused, watching Dean.  
  
“It must have come back, but I don’t remember anything else.”  
  
John sighed.  
  
“Ok, Dean.” Part of John hoped Dean never remembered.  As much as he wanted to know what happened, he wanted to spare his son any further pain.  Dean ducked his head again and John got the impression he thought he had disappointed his father.  John frowned, wanting to reassure his son it was ok, but not finding the words that would really make Dean realise that.  
  


* * *

  
_Dean sat in the middle of the backseat of the Impala.  Shotgun clutched in his sweaty palms.  Growling surrounded the car; coming from all directions as Dean twisted his head around, trying to see the black dog.  
  
“Aren’t you going to shoot it, Dean?”  Sam’s voice shook as he looked up at Dean from his position of the floor, safely wedged between the front seat and the back.  
  
“I can’t see where it is, Sammy.”  
  
The growling suddenly stopped, only to be replaced by a thud as the creature hit the car; rocking it with such force that it startled Dean, his fingers slipping on the gun.  
  
The next hit came from the back, actually making the car move forward slightly.  Dean had no sooner turned and raised the gun when the car was jolted again, this time from the front.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
“It’s ok, Sammy.  It’s ok, it can’t get to us.” Dean hoped he wasn’t lying.  His dad was out there, it would only be so long before he came back to car, all they had to do was wait it out.  But the hits only got stronger, louder.  The car could only stand so much._

_ The dog let loose a long snarling growl, becoming frustrated that his prey was so near yet just out of its reach.  
  
Then glass smashed.  A large foot clawed its way through the back window.  Sam screamed and scrambled to the left, away from the window and the broken glass raining down.  Dean tried to fire the gun but missed as the dog withdrew its foot to attack again.  Somehow it managed to get the door half off and Dean reached back fumbling to open the door behind them.  Opening it, he grabbed Sam’s arm and ran towards the tree line.  He knew the dog was behind them, could hear its heavy breathing.  It was getting closer.  Dean tightened his grip on Sam and willed him to run faster, when suddenly, Sam was wrenched out of his grasp.  Skidding to a stop, he turned to see the black dog standing over Sam where it had knocked him to the ground, ready to make the kill.  
  
Dean raised the gun, but he already knew he would be too late.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
_

* * *

  
Dean jolted awake gasping.  
  
Soft beeping, muted lights and the antiseptic smell all reminded him he was in the hospital not some clearing in the woods.  A concerned nurse stood over him with a hand on his arm, looking up at a monitor.  Dean glanced at her nametag, _Mary.  
  
_ “Shh, it’s ok.  Were you having a nightmare, honey?” She asked gently, keeping her voice down to avoid waking the other patients.  
  
Dean shrugged.  
  
“Sometimes it helps, to talk about them,”  
  
“Don’t remember it.” Dean mumbled.  
  
Mary sighed softly.  
  
“Okay then,” Grabbing the blanket bunched up at Dean’s waist she pulled it.  “Lets get you tucked back in, try and get a few more hours sleep.  You need the rest.”  She tucked the blanket up around Dean’s shoulders and he twisted slightly, snuggling into it as best as his sore chest would let him.  
  
“Comfy?”  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
Thinking the nurse would then leave him alone he was surprised when she sat down in the chair usually occupied by his dad.  She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear in the same way that Dean’s mother would do as she leaned over him to kiss him goodnight.

“When I wake up from a nightmare, before I go back to sleep, I try to think about something good.  Something that makes me smile and feel safe.  It helps keep the nightmares away.”  
  
Dean blinked.  _She’s not mom.  
  
_ Mary gave him a soft smile and left.  
  
Dean shut his eyes.  
  
He drifted off to the memory of Sammy splashing through the water of the beautifully clear lake they had visited a state or two ago, both boys had played in the blazing sun for hours on the shore and in the shallow water, their father standing watch over them both.

When Mary returned ten minutes later to check on him, Dean was fast asleep, the softest of smiles gracing his lips.  
  


* * *

  
“Mr Winchester?”  
  
“Mary!” Sammy yanked his hand from John’s and ran to hug his favourite nurse.  
  
“Sammy,” She laughed at Sam’s enthusiastic energy.  “Good to see you too, I know your brother’s really been looking forward to seeing you.”  
  
“Me too,” Sam replied, head nodding fast in his excitement.  
  
“Mary, how are you today?” John smiled politely.  
  
“I’m fine, thank you, I was just wondering if I could have a word?”  
  
“Sure,” John frowned, in his experience it wasn’t often people asked for a word and said something positive.  
  
They moved to a quieter area of the corridor away from the door, John beckoned Sam to go on ahead into the children’s ward and Sam quickly left, clearly trying to walk not run.

As Sam went through the door, John turned his full attention to Mary.  
  
“I’m concerned about Dean; he hasn’t been sleeping very well.  I mean, it’s to be expected, after what happened, the attack and everything, but he isn’t talking about it to anyone.”  
  
John wasn’t surprised.  It was the number one rule in their family that they didn’t talk about what they did, about the hunts.  Their cover story of being attacked by a wild dog whilst on a family camping trip had held up so far but the less said about it the better.  
  
“He hasn’t said much to me, I’m afraid.  I know he remembers being in the car but he says he doesn’t remember exactly what happened.”  John said, sharing Mary’s concerns.  It was one thing to not talk to the hospital staff, but quite another to not talk to John.  
  
“I think that he’s starting to remember in his dreams.” Mary offered, gently touching John’s arm as she left, leaving John wondering how to go about trying to get Dean to open up.  
  


* * *

  
“Dean!” Sam shouted as he skidded into the room, running around to the other side of the bed.  Using the chair by the bed he carefully clamoured up, settling down gently by Dean’s legs.  
  
Dean looked down the ward, confused when he couldn’t see his father following.  
  
“Dean, Dad said if you said it was ok that I could draw on your cast?” Sam’s hopeful eyes looked up at Dean and his small fist clutched a colourful array of felt tip pens.  
  
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean couldn’t help but smile at Sam’s enthusiasm.  
  
Sam spread out his collection of pens across the bed sheet.  
  
“You feeling ok, Sam?” Dean knew Sam had had a headache for the last few days, the after effect of his concussion, he also noticed the dark circles under his eyes.  
  
“Uh-huh, my headache went away last night and didn’t come back.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah,”  
  
“How much longer are you gonna be in here?”  
  
“What do you miss me?” Dean joked reaching up with his good arm to ruffle Sam’s hair.  Sam ducked out the way, giggling, his cheeks growing slightly pink.  
  
“I don’t know Sammy, when the doctors let me I guess.  Dad won’t sign me out AMA.  I’m guessing it’ll be a day or two more.  I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh.” Sam’s shoulders visibly slumped.  “It’s just, it’s not the same without you, Dean.”  Sam mumbled as he focused all his attention on drawing.  
  
“Damn straight it isn’t.”  Dean sighed; deciding to try and sweet talk the doctor into letting him go sooner.  
  
A minute later John entered the ward and sat down next to the bed, chuckling at Sam’s enthusiastic drawing.  He brushed a hand over Dean’s head before resting it on his shoulder.  
  
“How’re you doing today, kiddo?”  
  
“I’m ok, Dad.” Dean’s voice was quiet and John fixed him with a stare before deciding that he was probably just tired.  Dean was still sleeping a lot of the day.  
  
Sam had selected which colour to use and was currently drawing a smiling face.  Looking at the pens Dean noticed among the assorted colours a lurid pink one and discretely picked it up, hiding it beneath the bedcovers just in case Sam got any ideas.  The bright sunlight that flooded into the room obviously influenced the artist in Sam as he grabbed the yellow pen and turned the face into a smiling sun.  
  
The thought crossed John’s mind that most kids would have half a dozen friends at least to write and draw messages on their casts, John had packed up and left their rented home as soon as school had finished and at the moment the only true friend Dean had was his little brother.  
  
_He deserves more than that.  So much more.  
  
_ John’s smile faded as he realised that was something he could never give either of his sons.  
  
Two hours later when they left the ward to track down some lunch, Dean’s arm barely had a spot of white on it.  Stick men, smiling suns and a black car, John’s own contribution that he swore was meant to be the Impala, covered the cast.  Dean sighed, carefully scooting down the bed to get some sleep.  He looked at his arm one last time and smiled, reading the words written in Sam’s childish scrawl: Get Better Soon Dean!  Love Sammy.  
  


* * *

  
Seven days after Dean was admitted, John was finally given the all clear to take Dean home.  He wheeled his son out in a wheelchair, despite Dean’s protests that his legs worked perfectly fine.  It was hospital policy and one John was, for once, grateful for.  Sure, Dean could walk, but it was slow, painful and required frequent breaks for him to catch his breath.  John felt he could finally breathe easy, although deep down he knew that while Dean was being released, he was far from healed.  
  


* * *

  
John pulled the Impala up outside a small bungalow on the outskirts of town.  It was a little run down and in obvious need of some care.  The garden was overgrown and round the side of the house there were weeds taller than Sam.  Dean stared, wondering why his dad had stopped here, expecting a motel instead.  Maybe it was haunted?  
  
“Come on, boys.  Let’s get inside.  We can order pizza tonight if you’d like?”  
  
“Pizza!  Yeah!”  Sam was out of the car in a flash.  
  
“We got a house?” Dean asked, confused.  
  
“Yeah, for a month.  There are a couple of possible hunts nearby that I can check out and you still need time to heal.  We had the money so I rented it.”  
  
The paint was peeling off the front door and John had to jiggle the key in the lock to get it to open.  
  
“You didn’t need to do that, Dad.” Dean said softly, “I can just rest in the back of the car.  I’ll be fine.”  
  
“The road is no place for broken ribs, Dean.  We’re fine and we’re staying.”  
John’s decision was final.  
  


* * *

  
A week later John was working on sanding the front door.  The landlord had agreed that if John did some work on the house then he would knock some money off their rent.  He had already repainted most of the rooms inside the house and fixed the leak in the kitchen.  It was a beautifully sunny day so he had decided to get on with some outdoor work.  Sam had spent the morning playing explorer in the overgrown back yard with Dean sitting on the back porch at ‘base camp’ keeping an eye on him and listening to Sam’s wild stories about battling through the jungle in search of the elusive purple spotted Gongber, which was apparently a cross between gorilla and a bear.  
  
“Hey, Dad,” John jumped at Dean’s soft voice, surprised he hadn’t heard him approach.  
  
“Dean, you ok, kiddo?”  
  
“I’m fine, dad.” Dean rolled his eyes.  It was about the fiftieth time John had asked that question today.  His dad, however, showed no sign of getting tired of asking it.  
  
“Where’s Sam?”   
  
Sam had barely let Dean out of his sight since he’d been released from hospital.  
  
Dean grinned, “He decided to build a tent in the living room, using cushions and bed sheets and that zigzag drying rack thing we found in the closet but he fell asleep testing it out.”  
  
John laughed with Dean, he’d always found being an explorer tiring too when he was a kid.  
  
“What are you up to, Dad?”  
  
“Sanding down the door to repaint it, I’ve already done the windows.” John had purposely neglected to mention that doing the various jobs would save them money on the rent.  He knew Dean felt guilty enough as it was that they were staying here because of his injuries.  
  
“Can I help?”  
  
John sighed, looking at Dean, then down to his still healing ribs.  There had to be something he could do, to let him feel useful.  
  
“Actually, son, it’d be a great help if you could start the painting.”  
  
“Sure, no problem.”  
  
John got the paints and set Dean up with a chair to stand on and a plastic bag over his arm to serve the dual purpose of protecting it from paint splatter and preventing Dean from using that hand to paint.  John didn’t want him to pull on his injured side.  
  
“No reaching too high, Dean.  And if you get tired just stop, it’s not a problem.” He ordered, still intending to keep a close eye on Dean.  
  
“Yes sir,”  
  
Both John and Dean worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound coming from the rhythmic scrape of the sandpaper.  John had almost finished the door and Dean had painted half the window frame before Dean spoke again.  
  
“It was my fault.”  
  
John looked at his son.  Dean appeared so engrossed his careful painting that John wondered for a moment if he had actually spoken.  
  
“I shouldn’t have gotten out of the car.” Dean continued talking as he painted.  
  
“You remember?” John asked wearily, still unsure if this would be a good thing or not.  
  
Dean nodded as he dipped the brush into the paint.  
  
“The black dog left and I was watching the tree line.  I thought I saw it.  I though I saw it and I was sure I could shoot it.  I opened the door, got out.” Dean paused mid-stroke. “I didn’t know Sam got out behind me.” He waited as if expecting John to say something and when he didn’t he carried on.  “I should have known it would be too fast.  I should have stayed in the car.  I shouldn’t have tried to…” John could see Dean’s eyes fill and he put the sander down.  He was disappointed in Dean.  John thought he had trained him better than that.  
  
“It threw Sam into the car, Dad.  Then it came after me, but all I can remember is seeing Sammy lying there so still and knowing if I hadn’t got out...” Dean looked away, biting his lip and roughly wiping his face with his sleeve.  
  
John gathered Dean into his arms as the tears continued to leak out against Dean’s will.  
  
“It’s alright, Dean.  Sammy’s ok.  _You’re_ ok.  It’s alright.”  
  
John held Dean, softly talking, giving reassurance.  When the sobs dwindled into sniffs he drew back holding Dean by the shoulders and waiting until Dean looked him in the eye.  
  
“You were right though.  You should never have gotten out of the car, son.  Never.  When I give you an order I expect you to follow it.”  
  
“Yes sir.”  Dean replied, serious and quiet.  
  
Anger fuelled by fear rose in John as he realised what Deans mistake could have cost him.  
  
“You could have died, Dean.  You could have gotten both yourself and Sam killed.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You got lucky Dean, damn lucky.  I don’t _ever_ want to go through this again.” He shook Dean’s shoulders slightly, making his point.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“I know you are son, I know.” John stood, leaving a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You have to learn from your mistakes, Dean.”  He sighed.  “Look it’s about lunchtime.  Why don’t you go wake your brother up and we’ll go see about making some sandwiches.”  
  
Dean nodded and walked off, rubbing at his eyes with his shirt sleeve, not noticing the tears now tracking down John’s face as he leaned against the door remembering how close he came to loosing his sons.  
  


* * *

  
_A Week Later  
  
  
_ “Boys!” John called, ordering his sons to the kitchen.  
  
Sam came scampering in followed by Dean moments later.  
  
“How does chilli sound for dinner tonight?”  
  
“Sounds good, Dad.” Dean replied, his eyes sliding to the clock on the cooker, noting that it was a little early for dinner.  Sam nodded in agreement.  
  
“Glad to hear it because we’re making it ourselves.” John reached down and picked up the bag of groceries that had been resting on the floor by his feet and emptied them out onto the kitchen table.  Sam picked up the bag of meat and began poking at it experimentally.  
  
“Dad, are you sure about this?” Dean was sceptical; after all, most of their home cooked meals came out of tins or the microwave.  
  
“Yeah, chilli is the one meal my mother actually managed to teach me.”   
  
Hearing that it was an old family recipe seemed to encourage Dean, although it was clear he still had doubts over its success.    
  
“Plus,” John added. “It’s easy enough to make that you guys can do it on your own if I’m not here.”  John had decided it was about time he taught Dean to cook a proper meal, something other than spagettios and lucky charms.  
  
John quickly allocated jobs, placing Dean in control of the cooker and Sammy in charge of weighing and measuring out ingredients.  John left the slicing and dicing of various vegetables to himself.  Dean was unable to help with his cast and while Sam was proving to be quite proficient in knife throwing John wasn’t quite ready to let him lose on innocent vegetables with the sharp kitchen knives.  
  
With the boys following their fathers instructions the kitchen was soon filled with mouth watering smells.  John laughed and pretended not to notice when Dean stuck a dollop of tomato puree on Sam’s nose.  Sam, however, retaliated by blowing pepper in Dean’s face trying to unsuccessfully to make him sneeze.  John was forced to break it up when Sam started to chase Dean around the table, tomato puree tube held threateningly in one hand.  
  
“Sam, the tomato puree is food, not ammunition.”  
  
“But Dad!  He started it!” Sam complained pointing at Dean who had returned to stirring the pot attempting to look innocent but failing to hide his smile.  
  
“Doesn’t matter who started it.”  
  
“But, he put the tomato stuff on my nose!” Sam said making it sound like a horrific crime.  
  
Eventually, all three sat at the table, proud smiles plastered over their faces as they devoured their first home cooked meal in record time.  It wasn’t until several helpings later that his sons grudgingly admitted that they could eat no more and helped wash up the dishes.  John knew that sooner rather than later they would have to hit the road again and the hunt would take over and whether he liked it or not moments like this would become few and far apart.  
  


* * *

  
That night, John heard soft voices coming from his sons’ room.  It was way past both boy’s bedtime and he was about to tell them off for staying up so late when for some reason he stopped at the door and listened.  
  
“It’s alright Sammy, I’m fine, now.”  
  
John heard muffled sniffles.  
  
“We’re _both_ fine.  The black dog is dead; it can’t hurt us or anyone else again.”  
  
“I know,” But Sam’s voice didn’t sound as sure, and his breath hitched at the end.  “It still gets to me in my dreams.  It knocks you down and you don’t get up again and then it comes after me.”  
  
“Hey, hey, look at me, Sam.”  
  
There was a pause and John imagined Sam slowly unburying his head from Dean’s shoulder to look at him.  
  
“Dreams can’t hurt you OK, they’re not real and you won’t have them forever.”  
  
John walked away from the door, sadly acknowledging that Dean would deal with Sammy’s nightmares much better than he ever could.  
  


* * *

  
Sam sniffed, wiping his running nose inadvertently across Dean’s sleeve.  Dean wrinkled his own nose in disgust but ignored it when Sam attached himself to Dean’s side, looking for a hug.  
  
“I have bad dreams too sometimes.” Dean admitted as he wrapped an arm around Sam.  
  
“You do?”  Sam abruptly looked at Dean, in shock that there was something his brother was afraid of too and to be honest, slightly afraid of whatever it was that could scare Dean.  
  
“Yeah, kiddo, they get to even the best of us.” Dean said with a squeeze to Sam’s shoulder.  
  
“What do you do when you get a nightmare?” Sam asked, curious.  He always went to Dean who would reassure him and sometimes let him stay the rest of the night sleeping next to him.  Did Dean go to Dad?  
  
Dean sighed, normally he would lie in bed, just staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft breaths from next to him until his heart stopped racing and he could allow his eyes to close.  If it was a really bad one, he got his walkman out and lost himself in his music till dawn.  He didn’t think that would work for Sam.  
  
Then he remembered.  
  
“If I get a nightmare then I think about something good, something that makes me happy and feel safe.  Like a memory or a place we’ve been.  I think about that while I fall asleep and it keeps the nightmares away.”  
  
“Do you think I could try that?” Sam asked.  “Would that work for me?”  
  
“Sure, Sammy.  Roll over and close your eyes.”  Dean tucked the blanket securely around their shoulders.  “Now find yourself a happy memory.”  
  
“Already got one.”  
  
“Good job, ok now, focus on that.”  
  
Dean didn’t allow his eyes to drift shut until he felt Sam’s body relax into sleep.  As he listened to Sam’s regular deep breaths he was lulled into a dreamless sleep.  
  


* * *

  
Despite Dean’s regular and persistent suggestions that he was fine to hit the road again, they actually stayed in the rented property for the whole month.  John managed to pick up some work towards the end of the month at the local garage when an employee came down with a bad case of the flu, which helped pay for the few bills they had and food.  Dean went back to the hospital for a check up and was given a clean bill of health. He was also more than happy to lose the now slightly grey and tattered cast on his arm.  Sam poked at the flaky skin that had appeared from under the cast and declared Dean’s arm ‘gross’ while Dean proudly waved around his newly free arm.  
  
As they packed up their few belongings, John looked wistfully back at the house.  Briefly he had given his kids a home, and something resembling normal.  It wasn’t much, but maybe it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have written this 11(!) years ago but I'd love to hear how it has (or hasn't) stood the test of time so reviews are gratefully accepted! I'm currently re-watching and re-discovering my love of Supernatural.


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